The Enchanter General 03 - Merlin Redux

by Dave Duncan

  We soon discovered that there were more healers still around than Maur had known, mostly barons’ personal sages. All of them had been healing in secret, but their patients had been mostly knights and lords, not the common archers, men-at-arms, or servants. When we passed the word of our new royal authority and set to work, it did not take us long to find the best incantations for the local plagues, and soon we were hauling men away from death’s door by the wagon load. Those who were too far gone to give consent, as the king had required, we had to allow to die, but most of those had passed out of our reach anyway.

  Soon I had organized teams, starting with cooperative priests or deacons, who began the process by explaining to each potential patient the Church’s official view that enchantment was devil worship. Knowing the chances of dying from whatever disease they had contracted, very few of them decided to refuse treatment. Next came a squire or page, who asked about symptoms, and thus was able to advise the enchanter and cantor of what they had to deal with—dysentery, typhoid, or tertiary fever. Those were by far the commonest, but there were a few others just as nasty.

  One man I was happy to meet again was the king’s favorite minstrel, Blondel de Nesle, and we soon renewed the brief friendship we had struck three years earlier, in England. He came and listened to my chanting one morning, and after a while asked if he could try. He sang like an angel, that man, and the spirits rewarded his patient with a very fast recovery. Tall, slender, blond as his name implied, and a wry observer of mankind, he made an excellent enchanter, or cantor. And when a sufferer declined enchantment as devils’ work, Blondel would sing a psalm or two over him, which often seemed to help too.

  I saw very little of William Legier. While I was busy healing, he was busy hunting Saracens. He went out daily with any scouting or foraging party he could find, but the enemy was rarely available for his murderous purpose. Lars had decided that my old friend had gone mad and I found that hard to deny with conviction. To avenge four deaths from fever by slaughtering other human beings hardly seemed rational. I think if his sons had died in battle he would have been happier. It was the very futility of their lives that drove him.

  While I was working two thirds of every day at healing, the barons mutinied. Led by Duke Hugh of Burgundy, who had taken King Philip’s place as leader of the French contingent, they voted to attack Jerusalem. Richard seemed to dither for a few days. I may have helped him decide, for I was able to report that I had just seen Lord John in Nottingham Castle, which I knew well, so he wasn’t conspiring with Philip in France.

  Early in June, the king announced that he would agree to make another try for Jerusalem, and would remain in Outremer until the following Easter. So the crusader army set out, unwinding across the plain like some gigantic hungry serpent.

  Most of our patients were recuperating by then, so I left a small party of healers behind to tend the invalids who remained, while the rest of us went off with the vanguard. The Saracens increased their night raids, but lost more men than they slew. By June 10th, we had reached Beit Nuba, a small fortress at the base of the hills. It had been razed by Saladin and repaired by the crusaders, for this was where they had halted in January, a mere twelve miles from the Holy City, just one easy day’s ride on a good road—had there been a good road and no resistance.

  So near, and yet so far!

  And there all progress ceased. The heat was much worse there than it had been in Ascalon, where breezes off the sea had brought us some relief. For a few days, we healers were less in demand, and it seemed that we had left the diseases behind, but they soon caught up with us. Probably it was just that the army had dug fresh latrine pits, which soon became as foul as usual. Even the Romans had known that fevers are caused by bad air.

  Rumors abounded—that we were waiting for reinforcements, that the Saracens had poisoned every well between Beit Nuba and Jerusalem so the summer heat would dry us up like prunes, that the walls of the Holy City were so strong that a siege would take longer than the two-year struggle for Acre . . . and so on. I was not so much concerned with why we were going nowhere as I was about Lord John and King Philip conspiring back in France, but I had no more visions to guide me.

  Then, on the 20th, or thereabouts, one came. It was while Lars and I and a group of similarly dog-tired healers were slumped around a fire in the evening, chewing some appallingly vile dried meat. It think it had previously been part of an elderly camel. The fire, I should mention, was minuscule, for there was almost no fuel to be had except dung. It barely warmed the meat laid on it, but it scattered sparks upward to the stars. There was no conversation. I suppose we were all dreaming of the loved ones we had left behind, so very far away. Somewhere much nearer, a group of crusaders were singing Le Chanson de Roland, in Burgundian accents.

  According to what Lars told me later, my eyes rolled up and I began to mumble in some unknown tongue. He grabbed me lest I topple into the fire, while everyone else began to mutter about Merlin.

  After a few moments I came to myself and looked around to see where I was. Then, “The king!” I said. “I must tell the king!” I scrambled up, almost forgetting my cane in my urgency. Ignoring warnings that there was no way I would be allowed in to see him at this time of night, I went stumbling off through the camp, with Lars at my side, steadying me every time I stumbled over tent ropes.

  Passwords! Passwords? What in the name of Holy Peter were tonight’s keys to Heaven?

  Fortunately, I had remembered them by the time I reached the guards around the royal enclosure. Challenged by two pikes with a flashing sword right behind them, I said, “Blessed are the meek!” That got me inside, where a flaming torch demanded my name and the second password, but I had the third one ready: “Barleycorn.” The third would win me immediate entry, even if King Richard was in bed with Queen Berengaria—except that she happened to still be far away in Acre.

  That same young Sir Fulk Gourand I had met the first time I had been allowed in nervously raised a flap for me and announced, “Baron Durwin de Pipewell, Your Grace.”

  I limped into the lions’ den. His Grace was not alone. He was in conference with at least a dozen nobles, all standing in a circle, meaning that they were talking business. At least thirteen pairs of eyes turned to glare at the intruder.

  “Durwin!” Richard barked. “You have news for us?”

  “Um, yes, Lord King.” I glanced uneasily around the audience. Did he really want me to babble prophetic heresy about visions? I tried to convey with my eyebrows that the two of us ought to withdraw to somewhere private.

  A voice said, “Merlin? . . .”

  “It had better be from a reliable source!” the king snapped, and I caught the hint—he wasn’t yet ready to receive reports of visions in public.

  “One of our best sources, sire. He says that there is an enormous enemy caravan on its way north, guarded by a large escort. At least a thousand camels, he estimates, possibly twice that. He thinks it will be in our area right about the time of the full moon . . . sire.”

  Well! The mood brightened dramatically. The lions smelled antelope and smiles blossomed everywhere. The king, especially, looked delighted.

  “Excellent! Do you know what route the infidels will take?”

  “Alas, no, Your Grace.” One rocky hill or sandy gulch looked like another in a vision. “It may not even have been decided yet.”

  “True, very true. My lords, I shall send out more scouts. This may be a chance to bring Saladin to his knees.” The king gave me a nod of dismissal.

  Sweating, I found my way out into the chill desert night. Lars was there to escort me back to the Leicester camp—his night sight was much better than mine. I fully expected an early morning summons, but it seemed to come one minute after I closed my eyes. Lars was fast asleep, so Fulk guided me back through the maze to the royal enclosure.

  Richard looked almost as weary as I felt, but he was obviously well pleased with me. The strain of leading such a motley army was telling on h
im, making his moods unpredictable. I was granted a chair and a goblet of fine wine, then he demanded a proper report on my vision.

  “I saw some place in the desert waste, Lord King, at first light. The moon was just setting, so it was at the full or one night past it. The caravan was assembling to move out. The vanguard had already left, and they were definitely heading north.”

  “Truly a thousand camels?”

  “More, sire, many more. Plus horses, mules, dromedaries. A huge host.”

  “I already have spies out, you know. They haven’t reported any signs of a great caravan leaving Egypt.”

  “It probably isn’t within their range yet, Your Grace, and they have to come back here to report, which takes time.”

  “You are very confident, Baron.”

  “I stake my word on it, sire. And something I can tell you that your spies cannot—something I could not reveal earlier— is that you are going to intercept it. While I was watching, I watched the Christians’ attack. I swear I saw you in the lead, sire, on a gray horse, with a full moon setting.”

  He laughed. “But you did not see yourself there? Because I am going to take you with me, Baron Durwin of Pipewell! And if your vision is not a Satanic trap, we shall deal the Saracens a deadly blow.”

  Which would be nothing compared to what he would deal me if it was.

  That brief struggle was honored with the monstrous name of Tell al-Khuwialifia, after a pitiable oasis in an otherwise empty desert. On the 24th of June, the Christians attacked in force, charging out of the dawn. No one had suggested that I don armor or carry a lance. I stayed on the outskirts with a band of other healers, ready to treat our wounded, but few needed us. Although vicious, the fight was short, for most of the Saracens soon panicked and fled. Quite apart from the thousands of baggage animals we took, the loot was stupendous, and it was the first real booty the crusaders had seen, for Acre and other towns they had liberated had all been already stripped bare by the Saracens. Weapons and food, silks and jewels, silver and gold—it was a mythical hoard.

  My name was made. The pretense that I was a spy-master running a secret troop was needed no more—not that anyone had ever believed in it anyway. There were no more jokes about devil worshiper or Lord Three Legs. From then on I was a hero, Lord Merlin Redux. Even bishops were sometimes polite to me.

  And from then on, King Richard believed in my prophecies—usually.

  Soon after that profitable raid, I had a vision of near-panic in a congested city that could only be Jerusalem. I stood atop David’s Tower like an angel on a cathedral spire and watched fortifications still being strengthened. With the vision of a hawk I could make out dead animals being dropped into wells of sweet water far outside the city walls.

  But then my view shifted to a street where a long string of camels ridden by armed men was wending in single file through a crowd of weeping and wailing spectators. Dreamlike, I went with them, although in the real world I would never have been able to keep up with them in the crush. I could tell from the riders’ rich raiment and fine weapons that these were no ordinary troops. Eventually we reached a great city gate, which shadows told me faced north, and there foot soldiers were holding the spectators back and the camel riders were forming up in formation around one man. So richly clad he was, and so impressively attended, that he could only be Sultan Saladin himself. Who else would command an escort of hundreds? When the force was properly assembled in formation, the gate was swung open and he rode out.

  I went and told King Richard, as soon as he dismissed yet another conference, that Saladin was fleeing Jerusalem. He just grunted that I must not tell anyone else, and dismissed me.

  The barons’ meeting had been noisy, and secrets spread like plague in the crusader camp, so I soon leaned the gist of the arguments. The barons still wanted to push on to Jerusalem. The army, almost to a man, agreed strongly. Some of then had been far from home for years, struggling to reach a city that was now a mere day’s walk away. The French, under the Duke of Burgundy, were especially insistent. The Latins who resided in the Holy Land—mainly Templars and Hospitallers—all agreed with Richard, for it would be up to them to hold Jerusalem after it had been liberated from the Saracens’ grip and the crusaders had departed.

  Richard, of course, had the added problem of the renegades, his brother and King Philip. What were they up to, back in France? Now that John of Alençon had left to return home, only two other men in the camp knew about that problem—Lars and I—and Richard did not know that Lars did. That same night I was shaken awake and summoned back to the royal compound.

  His field tent was almost as sparse as the one I shared with Lars, only slightly larger. Clearly the king had been unable to sleep. He was barefoot, wrapped in a silk gown, and pacing. He greeted me with a grim but apologetic smile.

  “I need your advice, Lord Merlin. Pour yourself some wine, sit down somewhere and listen to my troubles.” He took one seat, leaving me a choice of the other.

  “I listen well, Lord King, but advise poorly.” His wine was the best in the entire Holy Land, and if to lend a loyal ear was the best way I could serve him, then so I must.

  “I apologize for mistrusting you in the past.”

  “No need, sire. I am overjoyed that you trust me now.” But did he? I think even now that Richard never trusted any man completely. He knew men too well. And he was right, because I was later to learn that even my Myrddin Wyllt prophecies could be fallible.

  “I must warn you, Lord King, that your honored father, may he rest in peace, would heed my counsel on almost any topic except warfare. I am no warrior.”

  “But I am,” he said. “And every other man in this camp thinks he is. I want some common sense, that’s all. If you have a vision or two to add, so much the better. Now listen!”

  He rose to resume his pacing and began to stack his troubles on my shoulders like straw on a camel. If he lingered too long in the Holy Land, he might lose his kingdom. If he could not take Jerusalem, he would slink home a failure, and that would greatly aid Philip in his aggression, whereas if he could take Jerusalem, he would be a hero throughout Christendom, and no man would dare lift a finger against him. But could he take it, even with all those camels and other pack animals that the caravan raid had provided? His supply lines would be a flimsy thread winding forty miles from the coast through hostile terrain, and even water would have to come from Beit Nuba. Horses and camels drink rivers of water. The holy city itself was almost invincible, protected by rocky cliffs, vulnerable on only one side, where the defense could concentrate.

  “Worse,” he growled, still pacing and speaking more to history than to me, “even if it falls, who will hold it? The Hospitallers and Templars are spread too thin, and every other man in the army wants nothing more than to say a prayer at the Holy Sepulcher and then run home with all his sins forgiven. When the next fighting season opens in March, we shall be gone and Saladin will pluck the peach from the branch again.”

  The king refilled his goblet and at last sat down. “He is an honorable man.”

  For a moment my sleep-starved brain did not understand. Then I said, “The sultan, sire?”

  “Aye, Saladin. We are negotiating, he and I. Not face to face, but through his brother, Safadin. If we can make a treaty, we can save thousands of lives on both sides.”

  That there had been talks was common knowledge, but I was astonished to hear that the war might end in a truce. Some men—especially Frenchmen—would certainly call these negotiations treason and betrayal. I confess that I was frightened as I glimpsed the full horror of the king’s predicament. Was he seriously expecting me to advise him? Must I bear that cross?

  Then my thoughts went otherwise. I looked up and saw that he was regarding me wryly. “You are nodding at something. What?”

  “I have been wondering why, if you are so reluctant to attempt an assault on Jerusalem, you brought the army out of Ascalon and so far inland, back to Beit Nuba, where it was last Christmastide.
But if you are negotiating a treaty, your voice must sound much louder here than it was when you were down on the coast. You are feinting? Twisting the sultan’s arm, Lord King?”

  Those cold pale eyes studied me. “I suspect that you are the only man in the army who has worked that out, Baron Durwin.”

  “Perhaps just the only one rash enough to say so, sire.”

  He smiled—faintly. “It helps me just to talk it out with someone, and especially with a clever man. If you have foreseen anything that would help, then I want to hear it. But also, I am curious to know what you suggest.”

  “Your Grace has already heard everything I have foreseen, and I do not know how any of that will help. I feel almost as if a curtain had been drawn across events, and I am not permitted to meddle further. But a question, if I may? Would you have caught that caravan at Tell al-Khuwialifia had I not foreseen its existence and prophesied that you would intercept it?”

  Richard’s eye narrowed, but that may have just been a reaction to the unusual experience of being questioned. “Possibly not. Our spies might not have detected it in time for us to prepare. Why?”

  I hesitated, because I wasn’t sure why I had asked. “I am puzzled that I was sent such a clear and helpful vision a few days ago, and now, when you need it, sire, I receive nothing.”

  Richard Lionhearted was many things, a very complex person, but stupid he never was. He frowned. “You are assuming that your visions come from God and that the wealth that fell into our laps at Tell al-Khuwialifia was a blessing, but I cannot be certain that it was. It boosted morale enormously, yes, but many men now find themselves much richer than they were, and this tempts them to forsake the cause and go home. It could be that your visions do come from the Devil, and now the Lord is blocking them. You cannot argue that the other way, can you?”

  Sadly, I said, “No, sire.” Satan could not block God.

  His nod indicated that my audience was now over. “Take that lantern and my thanks, Baron,” he said, and headed for the crucifix to pray.